The Ethical Assassin_ A Novel Part 23

It all felt too familiar. Hot, covered with a slick of sweat, the plankton coating of grime on my tongue, standing at a door, ready to knock, the sickly smell of pig s.h.i.t wafting through the air. Only this time I wasn't trying to make money, I was trying to get information-information wanted by an a.s.sa.s.sin, not me.

I stood on the stoop of the trailer several doors down from b.a.s.t.a.r.d and Karen's. I'd already had one no-answer, two suspicious doors closed hastily in my face, and one veiled threat from an exceptionally short and obese man in boxers and a sleeveless T-shirt. Then there was number five. The day before, it had been dark and empty when I'd pa.s.sed by. This afternoon, I could see lights on in the living room and hear the hum of the window-unit air conditioners. A woman in her sixties opened the front door but refused to open the screen, as though that would somehow protect her. Her hair, dyed to the color of yellow grapefruit, was cut short and permed into a dense jungle of cheerlessly fisted loops. She wore thin sea green sweatpants and a University of Florida T-shirt on which a saucily agitated gator charged forward.

"Hi. I'd like to ask you a couple of questions about your neighbor over there, Karen."

"I don't want to buy nothing," the woman told me.

"I'm not selling anything, ma'am." I said, noting how odd it felt to mean it this time. "I was hoping you could answer a couple of questions for me. You'd be willing to do that, wouldn't you?"

"I told you, I ain't buying," she said, and began to shut the door.

Part of me was content. I might go back to Melford and say that no one would talk to me, then we'd get into the Datsun and cruise out of Meadowbrook Grove forever. But that other part of me, that niggling part, knew that Melford would send me right back out, to another part of the trailer park, this one maybe closer to where Doe kept his police station.

So I said, "Hold on." A clever little lie occurred to me, and I figured I had nothing to lose. "Ma'am, I'm really not selling anything. I'm a private detective." Private detectives were on the brain, after all, following my conversation with Chris Denton. So why not?

She looked at me, this time more kindly. "Really?" Her eyes were wide with wonder.

"Yes, ma'am." It was incredible to me. This being a.s.sertive business actually paid off.

"Like Cannon?" she asked.

I nodded solemnly. "Exactly like Cannon."

"Not exactly. We'll have to fatten you up first." She opened wide the screen door.

Her name was Vivian, and she sat me at a padded card table in her kitchen and served me a can of Tab and supermarket-brand frosted oatmeal cookies that she daintily placed on a layer of paper towels.

There were pictures of poodles everywhere-on the walls, in frames on the counter. I counted at least a dozen. But there didn't seem to be a dog around, though the place had the wet smell of dog hair.

"Oh, that girl was always a s.l.u.t," Vivian said thoughtfully. "Just like her mother. Wh.o.r.es, the two of them. And into drugs, too."

"What sort of drugs?" I asked.

"I wouldn't know that, that," she said with a cluck of her tongue. "I hardly even know what people today take. In my day, we just drank, you know. The other things, like reefer and such, were for c.o.o.ns."

"Racc.o.o.ns, ma'am?" I asked.

She giggled and waved a hand at me as if we were old joking pals. "Oh, you stop."

"What about the man she was seeing?" I ventured. I liked the way it came out, all TV and professional sounding. "Are you familiar with him?"

"You mean that b.a.s.t.a.r.d fellow? Oh, yes. I didn't much care for him. Not a nice man. You could tell by his name. Not a proper nickname, I don't think."

"That's right," I agreed. "Nice people have nicknames like Scooter or Chip."

"That's right. I heard he was into drugs, too. And I heard he was selling them with-"

And then she stopped. She stopped, she looked around the trailer, and she flipped at the metal ring on the top of her can of Tab.

"Go on," I urged.

"It don't matter. But she and her boyfriend were into drugs all right. And that's why her husband took her kids away, because she was hooked on something, and they say she was letting that b.a.s.t.a.r.d fellow have his way with one of the girls."

"Ma'am," I said evenly, "tell me more about the business with the drugs. Does this have anything at all to do with the police chief, Jim Doe?"

Vivian looked down. "Oh, no. Not that I heard nothing of. I got nothing bad to say about Jim Doe. He's always been nice to all of us. Except for the smell that comes over from his pigs there, he's done nothing but good here. I'll tell anyone that."

"I don't want to make you uncomfortable. Just one more question." I was beginning to feel my audience straining, and I wanted to get out before I frightened her too much.

She shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "I think we done enough questions today. I think maybe it's time for you to go."

"Just one more," I urged.

"No," she said. Her face had grown pale and her skin slack.

"All right." I stood up. "Thanks for your time. I really appreciate it. I'm sorry if you feel like talking to me might get you in trouble with that policeman."

The woman said nothing.

"I can promise you," I continued, "I would never do or say anything to let him know you'd helped me. But the thing is, if he knew you spoke to me, he wouldn't have to know what you said, would he? I mean, you might tell him that all you did was give me cookies and a drink and smile at my questions, right?"

"That's right," she said slowly.

"That's all he would get from me, if it came down to that, though I'm sure it wouldn't. So, since I'm here, and he's not going to find out anything about what was said, there isn't anything wrong with answering just one more question, is there?"

"I guess not," she said.

"You're absolutely right," I told her, as though this argument had been hers all along. "Do you know if there was a woman in her forties or early fifties who might be a regular visitor at Karen's trailer?"

Vivian nodded. "Probably her mother," she said. "If it were anyone, it would be her mother, the wh.o.r.e. She sometimes comes for a visit. Karen says she comes without calling, just pops in without knocking, like she's trying to catch her daughter at something. That would probably be it. They're both wh.o.r.es," she added thoughtfully.

"Okay," I said. "Thanks so much. You're really going to help me crack my case." It sounded pathetic, but it seemed to soothe her.

"Well, you can come back anytime if you just want to talk, a polite young man like you. I'm happy for the company. Ever since my Rita went missing, I've been so lonely."

My first thought was that there was another dead person in Meadowbrook Grove, but something told me I was wrong. "Your poodle?" I asked.

Her eyes brightened. "Do you know her?"

She sounded as though we were at a party and she mentioned someone who might run in the same circle I did.

"No, I just noticed all the poodle pictures."

"Oh, yes. She disappeared a few months ago. I'm just so broken up about it. She was so beautiful. Not one of those tiny toy poodles, either, but a proper standard poodle. Black with a white patch on her head so she looked like she was wearing a hat. Such a sweet girl, my Rita. She always loved to play with the little children around here. And she loved fruit. You know, strawberries and grapes and bananas. All the kids knew it and would bring her fruit to eat. She was so happy and fat. I just wish I knew what happened to her, where she is now."

Her eyes were watering, and I turned away. "I'm very sorry she's disappeared," I offered.

She sniffled. "You're very kind." And she surprised me by giving me a kiss on the cheek.

Melford had agreed to hang back two or three trailers down, but when I came out of Vivian's house, I saw no sign of him. My stomach churned, only a little at first, but as I walked closer to where we'd started and still couldn't find him, the idea of being trapped in that trailer park alone, where Jim Doe might easily find me at any moment . . . well, none of that sat well.

I went back almost precisely to Karen's trailer, but I realized that was a terrible idea, so I moved again toward Vivian. Still no Melford. The sweat now came streaming off me, and the hog lot smell began to give me a headache.

I began to walk the dusty streets back toward the Kwick Stop. Once I was there, I would at least be out of Doe territory. It was like walking through a minefield, and I expected some kind of boom with each step. Every time I heard the rumble of a car behind me, an invisible fist squeezed my heart. Every gra.s.shopper disturbing the weeds, every lizard darting to safety. It was all terror.

But I made it to the convenience store without incident, and as I approached I noticed a familiar-looking car in the parking lot. It was Melford's Datsun. The car pointed away from me, so I could see only the back of his head-and the back of the person in the pa.s.senger seat.

It took an instant to see that it was the mysterious woman who worked for our unknown enemy. It was Desiree.

Chapter 27.

AT THAT MOMENT, I believed my best option would be to run away. Away from Melford, away from Jacksonville-away from all of it. At least I told myself it was the smart thing, since I found it easy to ignore all of the difficulties bound up with fleeing. It didn't matter, anyhow. I was beyond smart. Way beyond smart. I was well into p.i.s.sed off. I believed my best option would be to run away. Away from Melford, away from Jacksonville-away from all of it. At least I told myself it was the smart thing, since I found it easy to ignore all of the difficulties bound up with fleeing. It didn't matter, anyhow. I was beyond smart. Way beyond smart. I was well into p.i.s.sed off.

I went over to the car and rapped on the driver's side. Melford rolled down the window. "How'd it go?"

"You f.u.c.king s.h.i.t," I said.

His eyes widened. "That bad?"

"You were supposed to wait for me."

"And I did. Right here."

"No, you were supposed to wait for me in the trailer park."

Melford's face crinkled in puzzlement. "Why would I do that? I would just be drawing attention to myself. We agreed to meet here."

That wasn't how I remembered it at all, but Melford recalled the conversation with such conviction that I began to wonder if I'd made a mistake. He, after all, was the one used to formulating covert plans, cooking up schemes. Maybe I'd heard what I'd wanted to hear since I didn't like the idea of him leaving me all alone.

"What's this?" I asked, gesturing with my head toward Desiree, who had been smiling agreeably at me the whole time.

"You remember Desiree," Melford said.

"Of course I remember her. What's she doing here? What are the two of you doing sitting so cozily together?"

"Excuse us," Melford said to her. He got out and led me about fifteen feet away, over toward a pair of newspaper vending machines. "So, what did you learn?"

I figured I would hold off for the moment with the Desiree issue, since arguing with Melford probably wouldn't get me anywhere. I told him what Vivian had said, that the older woman was likely Karen's mother.

"It looks like she went over there at the wrong time," Melford said. "Doe clearly had his reasons for wanting to keep the deaths secret, so he killed her as well."

"What reasons are that?"

"Drugs." Melford shrugged, as though the topic bored him. "Doe's got some sort of scheme going on, and he's more afraid of an investigation that will unearth his operation than he is of linking himself to homicides. And that, my friend, is good news."

"Tell me how a crazy cop who deals drugs is good news."

"Look, Doe and his friends hid those bodies. They don't seem so bright, and I'm sure they left an evidence trail a mile long. If the bodies do show up, the evidence will lead back to them, not to us. At that point they can't very well say that no, they didn't kill Karen and b.a.s.t.a.r.d, it was probably a salesman who did that-they only buried them. Doe and his friends have plenty to lose. And what that means, Lemuel, is you are in the clear."

"What are you saying? That I can just walk away from this?"

"That's what I'm saying. I'm going to give you a ride back to wherever you want, and as far as I'm concerned, you can go back to your life. You keep quiet about everything you saw, stay away from that cop, and all will be fine."

"But what about this money they're all looking for?" I asked. "They're not going to forget about it, and as long as they think I have something to do with it, aren't they going to keep after me?"

"Forget the money," he said, not for the first time. "It doesn't matter. They sent Desiree to follow you, but she's going to tell them you have nothing to do with the money. Trust me. She's on our side, and even if she weren't, she'd have no reason to tell them you ripped them off when you didn't. They'll have to look somewhere else."

I sucked in air through my teeth. Could it really be true? Had these a.s.sholes, for stupid and ill-advised reasons of their own, protected us from scrutiny, all to conceal their sordid little drug deals? I could hardly believe it.

If I were honest with myself, I would have admitted that my relief was marbled with disappointment. I hadn't liked the terror of being arrested, I hadn't liked being slapped around by Doe, but I liked the feeling of being a part of something, and Melford had made me feel it was something important, something more than murder. In a couple of days I would be home, I would quit selling encyclopedias, and everything would be back to where it was. And I would still need $30,000 to get to Columbia next year.

Desiree stepped out from the pa.s.senger side of the car. She was wearing the same jeans as before, but instead of the see-through shirt and dark bra, she wore a b.u.t.ter yellow bikini top.

She had a nice body, there was no denying it, voluptuous and trim all at once, and under normal circ.u.mstances my biggest problem would be how to avoid staring at her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. But right now I had to figure out how to avoid staring at her scar. It was huge, unlike anything I'd ever seen before, running from her shoulder, down her side, and disappearing into her pants. It covered most of her side under her arm and nearly half her back.

It wasn't just that it was unusual. I remembered what Bobby had told me: The Gambler's boss, Gunn, had a woman with an enormous scar working for him. Desiree worked for B. B. Gunn. Melford had been sitting companionably in his car with a woman who worked for the enemy-the big enemy.

Not looking at the scar was incredibly difficult. It was as though it had its own gravity, pulling in my eyes. I decided to conceal my discomfort by asking about it.

"Can you tell me about your scar?" I said.

I regretted the words the minute they came out. This was life and death, here. She wasn't just an attractive woman with large b.r.e.a.s.t.s, a b.u.t.ter yellow bikini, and a scar the size of a hand towel. She was some sort of agent of evil. Wasn't she?

She looked over at me and smiled. "Thank you for asking." Her voice was sweet and vaguely vulnerable. "Most people think it's polite to ignore it, pretend they don't see it. This is where my sister was before they separated us." She ran her left hand along the scar, grazing it with the tips of her unpolished fingernails. "She died."

"I'm sorry." I felt stupid saying it.

Desiree smiled sweetly again. "Thanks. You're very kind. You and Melford are both very kind."

"So," I said, rubbing my hands together, "what can we do for you this time?"

"Mostly," she said, "I came to see Melford. I want to hear more about helping animals."

I sat in the backseat, sidekick status withdrawn, instantly converted to third wheel. I felt sullen and rejected-and cramped, shoved back there as I was into the too small s.p.a.ce designed for j.a.panese children, not American teens and a library load of tattered paperback books. When I asked where we were going, he explained, not very helpfully, that we were driving around. He wanted to keep me busy and away from Doe until my pickup time.

It was hard to hear everything from the back, but I could see that Melford had Desiree enthralled. She sat up front beaming at Melford as if he were a rock star, as though she had a crush on him. I didn't like her fawning all over him, and I didn't like that I didn't like it. I recognized that churning, uneasy feeling working its way through my chest as jealousy, but jealous of what? Did I want the s.e.xy half Siamese twin, or did I hate having to share Melford?

Once again, I felt I was missing something, maybe everything. Why didn't Melford want to know more about her before inviting her into the car? It seemed to me that the supera.s.sa.s.sin might be less detail oriented in his work than it had at first seemed.

After about twenty-five minutes on the highway, Melford pulled off and stopped at a 7-Eleven, saying he was thirsty and had to wash up. When he walked away, I felt a sickening panic set in. I didn't want to be left alone with Desiree. I had no idea who Desiree really was, other than an employee of B. B. Gunn. I didn't know what she wanted.

But Desiree showed no signs of finding the situation awkward. She turned around and grinned at me conspiratorially. "I think he's so s.e.xy."